


I Just Want to Love You, and Love You, and Love You Well

by allonsy_gabriel



Series: Another 51 [9]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Attempt at Humor, Awkwardness, Aziraphale is Not Oblivious (Good Omens), Aziraphale is a Little Shit (Good Omens), Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Fluff, Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), M/M, Marriage Proposal, Nonsense, Someone Help These Immortal Idiots, but crowley is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-29
Updated: 2019-08-29
Packaged: 2020-09-29 17:02:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20439446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allonsy_gabriel/pseuds/allonsy_gabriel
Summary: Aziraphale was simply curious to see exactly how long it would take for Crowley to do something about the very obvious ring box he kept in his pocket at all times.His bet was twelve years.When he’d told Madame Tracy (it didn’t seem right to inhabit someone’s body and then not keep in touch), she said he was giving the demon too much credit.





	I Just Want to Love You, and Love You, and Love You Well

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys!!! I'm not Super satisfied with the ending, so maybe expect some edits in the future!

Sure enough, two-to-three weeks later, a small package showed up on the doorstep of Dove’s Landing.

“Crowley, dear?” Aziraphale said as the door closed behind him. “Were you expecting a delivery?”

“ _ Ngk _ ,” Crowley choked out after a moment of definitely-not-panicking. “Er, uh, yes. Yup. Just some… fancy artificial environment killing plant fertilizer. Y’know. For evil. And plants.”

Aziraphale stared at him for a second. “For  _ evil _ ,” he repeated. “And plants.”

“Yup,” Crowley replied, popping the ‘p’ and quickly taking the box from Aziraphale’s hands.

“It’s quite a small box to be holding fertilizer—”

“It’s only for one plant. Just—just the one. You know the one that was mostly spots, that we got from the—”

“You mean the one you  _ harangued  _ from that poor woman at the art fair?”

“Yes, that, whatever,” Crowley said, silently willing this conversation to  _ end _ . “It’s just—that one needed extra help, so I got—”

“A very small amount of incredibly environmentally harmful fertilizer, for evil.”

“ _ Exactly _ .”

Once, Aziraphale had told Crowley that he was  _ certainly terrible at lying _ , but Crowley honestly thought he deserved a special commendation for pulling that one off.

(Had he noticed the expression on the angel’s face he might’ve realised, as we’ll soon see, that he hadn’t pulled off a single thing.)

“Alright, then,” the angel said. “Once you’re done  _ fertilizing _ , if you wouldn’t mind coming to see the scarf I’m working on, I’m afraid I haven’t got the length quite right.”

Crowley nodded and rushed to his study.

The study had become something of Crowley’s sanctuary at Dove’s Landing. The cottage was cramped ( _ cosy _ , Aziraphale would argue) and cluttered in much the same way Aziraphale’s bookshop had been. Oh, Crowley had  _ some _ say in the decor—no terrible  _ driftwood art _ , for starters—but, overall, he was content to let Aziraphale take the reins.

_ Except  _ for in the study.

It had the most windows of any room in the house, with dark hardwood floors and light grey wallpaper. Crowley’s desk and ultra-modern computer were against one wall, his throne in front of it. Other than that, the only furniture in the room was the demon’s prized sketch of the Mona Lisa from good ol’ Leo himself, Crowley’s (frankly concerning) number of houseplants, and a small black table for the little potted succulents he had  _ rescued _ from that terrible art fair woman. Aziraphale only entered the study when  _ absolutely necessary _ .

Crowley closed the door behind him.

The small cardboard box was addressed to  _ Mr. Anthony J. Crowley _ , and when the demon tore it open, it revealed another,  _ even smaller _ box, this one made of red velvet.

Crowley opened that box with  _ much _ more caution.

(Some could even describe it as  _ caution bordering upon anxiety _ .)

“ _ Shit _ ,” Crowley muttered under his breath.

He’d really done it.

He was really  _ going  _ to do it.

He had to, now.

It wasn’t—he hadn’t been  _ planning  _ any of this. Proposing to Aziraphale, which would, hell help him, eventually mean  _ marrying Aziraphale _ —

It’d all just been very spur of the moment, really. He’d seen the ring. He’d bought the ring. He’d sort-of told the ring-seller-man that he wanted to propose to the angel.

Now he had to  _ propose to the angel _ .

“ _ Fuck me _ ,” Crowley whispered.

“Oh, I thought we’d agreed that really  _ wasn’t  _ necessary—”

“Aziraphale!” Crowley shouted, spinning around so quickly he almost toppled over. The ring box was tucked into his back pocket. “You—what are you—I mean—”

“Have you finished with your plants? I really  _ do  _ need your help with this scarf—”

“Of course, angel. Just a minute,” Crowley said, putting on his best  _ nothing-is-going-on-here-I’m-not-up-to-anything-don’t-mind-me  _ smile. It was a smile that had gotten him backstage with the Beatles, Henry VIII’s bedchambers, 10 Downing Street (on multiple occasions up until recently, when his last  _ idea _ had taken off with a sort of frenzy he hadn’t anticipated, and he’d vowed to take a break from meddling in politics) (2016 had really been a  _ hell  _ of a year), and Area 51.

Aziraphale pursed his lips and raised his eyebrows before leaving the study.

Crowley quickly hid the ring box in one of his desk drawers (previously home to his letters from Edward Snowden) and followed his angel out of the study.

(Aziraphale really  _ did  _ need help with that scarf—it was longer than Crowley was tall, and the most hideous striped pattern the demon had ever seen.)

***

Aziraphale was simply curious to see exactly how long it would take for Crowley to  _ do something _ about the very obvious ring box he kept in his pocket at all times.

His bet was twelve years.

When he’d told Madame Tracy (it didn’t seem right to inhabit someone’s body and then not keep in touch), she said he was giving the demon too much credit.

***

Crowley wasn’t procrastinating. That most certainly was  _ not _ what was happening as he sat across from Aziraphale in the corner booth of a local cafe/bakery.

No, Crowley was simply…

Doing research.

If he was going to propose—and he, he  _ was, _ bless it—it was going to be  _ good _ . Not twelve dozen roses and a skywriter and a song dedicated to the angel on the radio—Lucifer only knew Aziraphale would never hear it, all he ever used was the blessed  _ gramophone _ , like it was 1912 or something—but…

_ Maybe someday we could, I don’t know, go for a picnic _ —

And if Crowley was going to do it, which, as has already been established,  _ he bloody well was _ , it was going to be the best  _ fucking _ picnic in history, so Crowley needed to know exactly what to pack, which meant food, which meant—

Cafes. Bakeries. Research.

_ Not  _ procrastinating.

“Oh, I do  _ love  _ these sausage rolls,” Aziraphale said primly, picking up the pastry in question between two neatly-manicured fingers. “It’s the jalapeño jam that  _ really _ puts it over the top, don’t you think, dearest?”

“If you say so, angel,” Crowley replied, mentally adding sausage rolls (with jalapeño jam, apparently) to the Menu (capitals required).

“I wonder if they cater,” Aziraphale added off-handedly.

“What? Why? What—why would you need to know—what needs to be catered?” Crowley sputtered.

Shit.

_ Shit shit shit shit shit shit _ —

He’d been found out.

Aziraphale  _ knew _ —

“I’ve agreed to help Cecelia down at the library plan her sister Fiona’s baby shower, darling, I’m sure I’ve told you,” the angel said, furrowing his eyebrows. “She asked while I was helping assess the condition of that first print collection of some of Clive’s work? Something about me  _ seeming like the type to know about all that _ , which, I’ll be completely honest, I didn’t  _ quite _ understand, but it  _ was _ rather flattering—”

Crowley released an unnecessary breath.

“Oh. Oh, yeah, I remember,” he interrupted. “Is she the one who got you into that baking show?”

“Oh, no,  _ that _ was Miriam from the post office—”

“Why were you at the bloody  _ post office _ ?”

“To pick up stamps! I told you, Crowley, just the other day, I said I was going out to pick up marshmallows and milk and stamps, and  _ you _ said, ‘Sure thing, angel, need a ride?’ and  _ I _ said—”

Crowley rolled his eyes but smiled as he let his angel’s words wash over him.

***

So  _ perhaps _ Aziraphale had wagered twelve years, but that didn’t mean he  _ wanted  _ to wait over a decade for Crowley to  _ pop the question _ , as it were, so if the angel dropped  _ subtle hints _ here and there, that was nobody’s business but his own, no matter what Madame Tracy ( _ and _ Cecelia,  _ and _ Fiona,  _ and  _ Miriam) said.

***

They're there because Crowley broke his watering can.

_ Actually _ , they're there because Crowley's watering can  _ was broken _ . Crowley had  _ nothing  _ to do with it, and  _ it _ certainly had nothing to do with how tightly the demon was clutching the now-broken handle as he took out his angel-adjacent-frustrations upon the hydrangeas along the back fence.

_ Certainly not _ .

_ Hollingshead Flowers and Gardening Supplies _ was small and cramped and run by an older man named Richard Hollingshead who was one of the few humans in town that Crowley could actually tolerate, if only because he occasionally offered not-completely-terrible advice on caring for Crowley’s herb garden.

There’s a wall full of flowers, lilies and tulips and carnations and daisies and all that rubbish, and Aziraphale  _ cooed _ as he ran a finger across a few petals.

“Oh, these are simply  _ lovely _ !” he gushed. “Just  _ look  _ at these colours!”

Crowley scowled. They were  _ alright _ , yeah, but they had  _ nothing _ on Crowley’s flower beds. “They’re not bad,” he muttered, glancing between the selection of watering cans a few aisles down.

“I do love sweet pea,” Aziraphale mused, and Crowley carefully tucked that information into a part of his brain labelled  _ very important, top priority, do not forget _ (funnily enough, this area was filled entirely with information about caring for the Bentley, lyrics to  _ Queen _ songs, and things about Aziraphale) (mostly things about Aziraphale) (roughly 98.54% things about Aziraphale). “Do you think Richard would be willing to do arrangements?”

“Do I—pfft—ngk—angel,  _ why do you need floral arrangements _ ?” Crowley demanded, his voice skyrocketing in pitch (in a way that was  _ very  _ suave and  _ very _ cool, thank you very fucking much).

“Well, I thought they’d look nice on the kitchen table—”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley interrupted. “If you—if you want sweet pea, I can—I’ll grow sweet pea. We’ll have—the whole back fence will be  _ just  _ sweet pea, you can have sweet pea bouquets on every fucking table—”

“Oh, really?” Aziraphale asked, poking his head around the corner, his eyes bright. “That would be  _ wonderful _ , thank you, darling.”

Crowley stared at the watering can in his hand for a moment, as if to ask it if perhaps it understood what had just happened and, if it did, could it maybe explain it to the demon, because he didn’t have a clue.

***

“You know,” Aziraphale said as he stood in front of the mirror in their bedroom, "I do think it might be time for a wardrobe update. Particularly in the  _ formal wear  _ department."

Crowley choked on air.

(That was one of his,  _ choking on air _ . It seemed just embarrassing enough, just awkward enough to attract unwanted attention, but not so noticeable that anyone  _ actually  _ commented on it. All it did was leave people feeling anxious and off-footed. Crowley was proud of  _ choking on air _ —which, of course, meant he was now being punished by it.)

(Maybe the God's plan  _ was  _ ineffable, but it Crowley's experience, it was mostly just out to bite him in the ass.)

"Wha—why—I—ngk—" he stuttered before clearing his throat. "Not that I wouldn't be happy to see that old vest of yours burn, angel, because Satan only knows I would be, but why, exactly, would you need to do that?"

Aziraphale blinked at him. "For Anathema and Newton’s wedding, my dear. Did you not see the invitation? It’s posted on the refrigerator.”

“Oh,” Crowley replied lamely. He  _ hadn’t _ seen the invite, actually, but it was good to know that a couple of humans who’d known each other for a little over a year were getting married before Aziraphale and him, two celestial beings with a relationship spanning the entirety of Earth’s history.

“My suit is nice, yes, but I fear it’s not  _ quite  _ suitable for a twenty-first-century wedding. The tailcoat, in particular, might stand out a bit,” Aziraphale explained.

Crowley scoffed. “Would that be more or less than the cravat and buckle shoes?”

Aziraphale glared at him. “Oh, you really are insufferable.”

Crowley winked at him and moved to wrap his arms around his angel’s waist. “So,” he said, grinning now that he knew he was in the clear (it was the  _ humans’ _ wedding, of course—Crowley had been  _ so  _ careful these past few months, had done some of his best sneaking, there was no way Aziraphale knew about  _ the other thing _ ), “what exactly did you have in mind, angel?”

Aziraphale peered at himself in the mirror. “You know, I was actually considering something in black,” he said casually. “It’s not proper to wear white at someone else’s wedding, you know.”

Crowley’s eyebrows shot up. “Black?” he repeated. “Why not—why not grey? Or… blue? Is that a colour suits come in? Tan?”

Aziraphale shrugged. “I always thought  _ you _ looked rather dashing in white, my dear, and it wouldn’t do for us to show up in the same thing.”

He turned and pressed a light kiss to Crowley’s jaw, and Crowley was so distracted that he didn’t even notice that Aziraphale had contradicted his own  _ no white at someone else’s wedding  _ rule.

***

When Crowley invited Aziraphale out  _ for a drive _ one afternoon with a picnic basket on his arm and a black-and-white gingham blanket tucked into the back seat of the Bentley, Aziraphale agreed, but not before making sure he put on his  _ best  _ bowtie and an extra spritz of that new cologne his barber had mailed him from London.

Things were going to  _ happen _ that afternoon, whether Crowley intended for them to or not.

**

"That was scrumptious, darling, really," Aziraphale said as he polished off the piece of lemon creme pie. He licked the last bit of meringue off his thumb, an act that, on any usual occasion, would have Crowley spiralling, but as it was, all the demon could do was hum his acknowledgment.

This was it, he thought. He was going to do it. No more waiting, no more research, no more worrying or fretting or procrastinating.  _ He was going to propose to his angel _ .

He took a deep breath and began, "Azirapha—"

"Oh, would you just ask me to marry you already, you ridiculous old serpent?" the angel snapped suddenly, throwing his napkin down into his lap.

Crowley blinked at him.

"You've been carrying that ring around for  _ months _ , I know you have, and I've tried to be patient, really, but I honestly don't think I can take it anymore, so if you don't ask me to marry you  _ right this instant _ , I'll—I'll—"

"You'll what?" Crowley asked.

Curiosity had always gotten the best of him, in the end.

"Then I'll do it myself!" Aziraphale replied indignantly. He looked around for a moment before noticing the sigil ring on his pinkie finger.

He slipped it off, buffed it against his cardigan, and held it out in front of him.

Crowley simply sat there, mouth hanging open.

"Crowley," the angel continued, somewhere between frustrated and exasperated and tender, "I have loved you for—well, actually, I'm not sure, but at  _ least  _ eighty years, that I've been aware of—and I will love you until the end of time. You are rude and sarcastic and cynical and rather more than a  _ bit _ of a drama queen and intelligent and compassionate and my very, very best friend. You complete my, Crowley, in a way I didn't know I needed until I found you, and I would love nothing more in the whole of creation than to call you mine, forever."

Throughout his little speech, Aziraphale's tone had shifted, from annoyed to awestruck, and by the end of it the angel— _ someone bless him _ —had tears in his eyes as he held his ring out to Crowley with shaking hands.

"My dear," he said softly, "would you grant me the absolute  _ honour  _ of marrying you?"

For a moment, Crowley didn’t say anything as his brain struggled to process all the words that had just come out of the angel’s mouth.

The smile on Aziraphale’s face faltered.

“Yes!” Crowley finally shouted, snapped out of his stupor. “Yes, yes, of—yes, of course, obviously, a million times, a million years, a million ways,  _ yes _ , oui, si, ita, recte, hai, ndiyo—”

Aziraphale laughed, his face wet with tears, and Crowley could do nothing but surge forward, cupping Aziraphale’s face in his hands as he pressed a kiss to his lips.

“I love you,” he said, the words cracking in his throat. 

“My dear,” Aziraphale murmured, “I know.”

**

They made it all the way back to Dove’s Landing before Crowley remembered, his fingers brushing the ring box as he shoved the Bentley’s keys into his pocket.

(They wouldn’t be there later. The Bentley’s keys were particularly intuitive—they always managed to be exactly where Crowley expected them to be, precisely because he expected them to be there.)

“I—pff— _ fuck _ —” Crowley stammered, looking at the velvet box in his hand.

“What was that, my dear?” Aziraphale asked.

“Oh, uh,” Crowley said, holding up the box. “Just, um, this. But, I mean, obviously it’s not—I don’t—you already—”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale interrupted, placing a hand on Crowley’s arm.

He didn’t have to say anything else.

Crowley cleared his throat again (that  _ blessed _ air, always getting stuck). “So, angel,” he said, desperately trying to Remain Cool ™. “I love you. Have loved you since… well, since Eden, really. There you were, all shiny and gold, standing in the east like some character from one of Shakespeare’s blessed tragedies that you’re so ridiculously fond of, and then you—well, you didn’t smite me, for starters, which was great of you, thanks for that—then you gave away your sword and I… well, I guess you could say I fell for a second time. I didn’t even think demons could  _ do  _ that. It scared the shit out of me, angel. I kept waiting for Lucifer to show up, drag me back under and string me up on a rack or whatever, but…”

Aziraphale’s eyebrows knitted together, his hand resting on the crook of Crowley’s elbow. “But?”

“But you were worth it, angel.  _ Are _ worth it, really. You’re insufferable and fussy and snobby and particular and gluttonous and compassionate and kind and gentle and—I love you. Really, it would be impossible for me to  _ not _ love you.”

There was a moment of silence before Crowley opened the ring box.

“Marry me, angel,” he said quietly.

Aziraphale beamed. “Oh, darling,” he said. “Nothing would make me happier.”

**Author's Note:**

> please tell me what you thought! this is the final part for now, as i'm participating in the GOBB and need to Focus on that, but maybe in the future we'll get a wedding fic. who knows!


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